


I Know A Place (I'll Take You There)

by KiaraSayre



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bonding, Dancing, Families of Choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:40:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2118864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiaraSayre/pseuds/KiaraSayre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living on a ship with - and Gamora still believes this, although not with the same edge of irritation as she did - the four biggest idiots in the universe isn't quite the same as saving the galaxy with them.  It takes some getting used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know A Place (I'll Take You There)

**Author's Note:**

> Detailed warnings: Contains mentions of past canon-compliant violence and murder and mayhem, mentions of school bombings (threatened, not actual), moral debate, and ABBA.
> 
> Many thanks to Ari for giving this a quick read-over as I despaired over ever getting the voices right.

i.

The ship is very small. Gamora grew on abandoned worlds, in cold and empty Kree warships, standing on platforms made of shattered planets hanging bare in space so wide the emptiness itself almost had substance. Living in any one place after that would seem small, and on top of that, the Milano really, truly has very little space. The cot occupies half of the space in her quarters, which shares a wall with Rocket on one side, and Rocket, it seems, has a habit of speaking to himself. Constantly.

Still, it is a welcome change to have space that is, in some small way, her own, and even the communal spaces of the Milano feel more welcoming and casual than she has encountered before. It's more pleasant, she finds, to sit in the cockpit or the cargo area, which has been repurposed as a living space now that Peter is not the only one living aboard the ship, even when nobody else is out there.

She has her hairbrush and the ties with which to secure it set out in front of her one day in the mess when Drax comes in. Instead of continuing to his quarters, he stops, watching her brush her hair.

"Yes?" she says eventually.

"Is your hair not a target in battle?" Drax says flatly, although when Gamora turns to judge his expression, there is only curiosity, not judgment.

"Long hair has been fashionable for women on Xandar for years," Gamora says. "Short hair would draw more attention. Or, at least," she adds, with caution, "that was that argument I used on Thanos as to why I should grow it long."

Drax's eyes narrow at the mention of Thanos. "And this argument was successful?"

"I developed a talent early on for presenting what I wanted to him in such a way as to make him think it was his idea," Gamora says.

"You wore a braid in the Kyln," Drax says.

"Yes."

"Why?"

The steady strokes of Gamora's brush slow, but she answers anyway. "My parents used to braid my hair, when I was a child. Before Thanos killed them."

After a moment's silence, Drax finally joins Gamora at the table, sitting across from her. "I forgot," he says, "that Thanos killed your family as well."

There is nothing else to say to that, so Gamora says, "Yes."

"Why do you not seek revenge?"

Gamora sets the brush down. "Killing Thanos will not bring my parents back."

"Do you not wish to avenge them?" Drax presses.

"I remember them," Gamora says. "When Thanos took me, he wanted an assassin. He did everything he could to burn every feeling, every sentiment that might make me soft out of me. For years, he thought he had succeeded, because when his tortures were at his worst, I had only one goal: to survive, so that the memory of my parents might survive in me. But when Thanos promised to destroy Xandar for Ronan, I realized that there would be nobody left to remember Xandar, and that there would only be dead to mourn the dead. That was when I decided that I would no longer survive, but that I would really and truly _live_. I celebrate the lives of my parents by saving others in their name." She smiles thinly. "That, I think, is more revenge on Thanos than death."

Drax stares at her, long and hard, and then says, "I used to braid my daughter's hair. Not in quite the manner that you do, but it was not dissimilar."

Gamora watches him back, unsure of where he's going with this, until he says, "I could braid yours, too, if you like."

Sometimes Gamora doesn't realize how much tension she still carries in her shoulders until moments like this, when she finds them moving away from her head. "All right," she says, and Drax comes behind her. She passes the brush over her shoulder, and he begins sweeping it through her hair, gathering at the nape of her neck.

"It's been many years since I've done this," Drax says quietly.

"Me, too," Gamora says. "But your hands remember."

It's true: she can feel his fingers separating her hair into strands behind the brush already. It would be easy for him to tangle his fingers in her hair, pull her head back and bare her throat, but she's seen what murderous intent looks like on his face and, for once, she didn't see it when he offered.

"There are some things a father never forgets," Drax says. "My daughter Camaria wanted to leave our world and become a spaceship pilot. She told us this whenever she was angry with us – she would say, 'You'll be sorry when I'm grown-up and I leave you all behind to be a pilot!' But I told her no. I would be proud, even if she left us all behind. I would look up to the stars and I would know that she was out there." He begins weaving the strands of hair together, folding them over and over without tugging or pulling. "Perhaps she and her mother can be both remembered and avenged."

Gamora stays silent for a moment. As frank and honest as this conversation has become, she doubts an explanation of her complicated stance towards Thanos and the assassins and murderers she came to view as her family would be welcome.

"Although I have little with which to compare," Gamora says instead, "I think you would have made an excellent father."

"I did," Drax says simply, and ties off the end of Gamora's braid.

ii.

Peter's cooking is so terrible it's almost laughable.

"I come from halfway across the galaxy, okay, how do you know that this isn't excellent cooking by Terran standards?" Peter says.

"If you cut it and it still bleeds, it's not _done_ ," Gamora tells him. "If this is acceptable to your people, then it's astounding that you haven't all died of illness."

Peter flips the steak in the pan and shrugs, his mouth stretching downwards in an exaggerated frown. "Well, for all I know, they have. And on my planet, this is called a perfect medium-rare. At least, if my granddad's grilling expertise is anything to go by."

Gamora frowns, and leans herself against the tall cabinet in the kitchen. "Is Earth so far away that you could not return there?"

Peter stabs the steak and transfers it to a plate. Thin red liquid leaks out of it, pooling on the plate, and Gamora reaches into the cabinet above her for any other potential food options – the kitchen area of the Milano is so small that she can reach to the cabinet on the other side of the room without having to stand all the way up off of the wall. "Pfft, what would I want to go back for? This is _space_. I'm an awesome space outlaw. And also a Guardian of the Galaxy now, apparently, so who'd give _that_ up?"

Gamora finds a tellu fruit, perfectly black and ripe, and rolls it between her hands. "You've really never wanted to return?"

"I didn't say _that_." Peter avoids her gaze, poking the steak around on the plate. "I mean, when I was a kid, sure, but…hell, what would I say to anyone? 'Hey, surprise, I was abducted by aliens, and also my dad's apparently an alien, and by the way I saved the galaxy, you're welcome!' Terrans don't even have a clue that aliens exist. I don't think it'd go over well."

"It must have been a surprise for you, then, when you were taken."

Peter finally turns to face her, holding one hand out between them. "Okay, hold up, what's up with all the feelings-talk, huh? Why are you suddenly so keen to talk about…" He gestures vaguely with his outstretched hand, searching for the word, and finally gives up and says, "feelings?"

"I told you we would follow your lead," Gamora says. "If you wanted to return to your home planet to be celebrated as a hero, well…you may be the only one of us who still has a home planet." She shrugs. "We would celebrate with you. That's all."

"Oh." Peter looks down at his plate and shrugs one shoulder petulantly. "Well. Like I said, Terrans don't even know about aliens, so that kind of puts a damper on that plan." Then he frowns. "Wait, hang on, I can't be the only one – "

"Rocket and Groot are the only members of their species, Rocket by design and Groot by circumstance," Gamora says. "Thanos rendered Drax's homeworld inhospitable. There are others of his species, scattered around the galaxy, but the planet itself is…"

"Gone?" Peter says.

"Lava," Gamora finishes. 

"So basically gone. Huh." Peter's eyes meet hers, quickly and nervously, and he asks, "And yours – was it Thanos?"

Gamora swallows, but then speaks anyway. "A race called the Badoon. My parents and I were refugees when Thanos found us and decided he had a use for me. He had no such use for my parents."

Peter nods slowly, his lips folded against one another. The silence stretches on, until he coughs slightly. "Okay, look, I just have to ask – so all of those people you, y'know, _killed_ \- how many are we talking? Is it like moderate levels of death or…" He trails off at the look on Gamora's face. "So more severe levels of death, then…? Do you even remember how many – "

"I remember all of them," Gamora says sharply.

"Oh," Peter says, and presses his lips together again with wide eyes. "Okay, then."

"For a long time, my priority was simply survival," Gamora says, relenting slightly at his clear discomfort. "Now, I would rather live."

"That's fair, that's totally fair," Peter says, nodding. "So like, dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Feel free to stop me from escalating any more – "

"I slaughtered children in their sleep. Weeping families that clung to each other in their last moments. People who begged and pleaded for their lives. How many of those would you consider a 'severe level of death'?" Gamora cocks her head to the side, watching Peter's mouth drop open in a very unflattering manner.

"Is this your way of saying you don't want to talk about it?" Peter asks.

"Yes."

"Done."

iii.

"You know, that sure looks a lot like a tracking sequence for the kind of merretial processors used in cybernetic enhancements."

Gamora's fingers still on the input boards of the Milano, hovering above the screen. "That's because it is," she says, and turns her seat to face Rocket. He crosses his arms and leans against one of the seats, his whiskers twitching.

"You wouldn't be thinking of going after your crazy cyborg assassin sister who, in case you somehow managed to forget, tried to kill us, destroy Xandar, and destroy the whole galaxy, would you?"

"Ronan broke his deal with Thanos. If Nebula was with him, then she must have betrayed Thanos, too. She could very well be an ally – "

"Yeah, sure, there's just not enough crazy between the five of us as is, so let's add some more!"

"Of everyone on this ship, I would have thought that you would be the most understanding."

Rocket laughs at that – not as hard as he laughed at Peter's plan, but a genuine and full laugh nevertheless. "If you're relying on me to be the most understanding one, then you've got bigger problems than you even realize."

Gamora just says, "Nebula was made, too."

Rocket goes quiet, staring at Gamora, a slight twitch in his whiskers the only sign of movement. "The difference is," he says finally, "I don't take orders from nobody."

"Apparently Nebula doesn't either, now."

"Oh, what, is that supposed to make me like her more? Great, she's not trying to – and I'm gonna say this again, because it sounds like somehow you've missed this very salientary point in all this – destroy Xandar and help Ronan destroy the entire freaking galaxy anymore. The fact that that was ever a thing she was doing is kind of a problem!"

"For a thief, thug, and mercenary, you're very quick to pass judgment," Gamora points out, although there's no judgment in her own voice.

"Well, yeah," Rocket says. "I thought the whole point of this doing-the-right-thing business was that I got to look down on everyone else who didn't. That and, you know, getting our criminal records expunged and discounts at restaurants on account of our having saved the galaxy."

Gamora glances back at the tracking program. Currently the only hit, not unexpectedly, is on the Milano itself – Rocket. "Nebula deserves a chance to be more than Thanos made her."

"From what Quill and Drax told me, she had her chance and she used it to attack you with swords. And that other chance that she used to destroy your ship and leave you to die in the vacuum of space. It's not a great track record, is what I'm saying."

Gamora's hands tighten into fists on the armrests of her chair, and she says, "You said that there's nothing like you except you. What if there were? Can you really say that you wouldn't do anything in your power to help them if they existed?"

Rocket shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, no, no, no. You guys guilted me into joining the fight that one time, but that don't mean you're gonna do it again. I see what you're doing, and the thing is, if there _was_ another thing like me, then it could get out the same way I did. I got nothing in this world that I didn't fight for – even the four of you idiots."

Gamora purses her lips. She sees no use in arguing when Rocket's mind is clearly made up, but she still disagrees – she sees no point in helping herself if she can't help others, and even though she fought her own way to be where she is now, free of Thanos, she would never have succeeded if the others hadn't fought for her as well and if she hadn't fought for them. That was their strength against Ronan, and, in her opinion, it still is: they are more than the sum of their parts. _That_ is what Gamora wants for Nebula.

"Well," she says slowly, "I can fight for myself, and I can fight for you, and I can fight for Nebula, all at the same time." She allows her mouth to curve into a slow, knowing smile. "I'm very good at fighting."

iv.

It's several months before Groot has grown tall enough to be removed from his pot, but once he is, he staggers around the Milano like a drunken toddler.

"He's just got to re-learn his coordination," Rocket says, unconcernedly cleaning one of his many, many guns.

"I am Groot!" says Groot, and falls flat on his face.

Rocket shrugs. "He'll be fine."

One advantage that Groot has, of course, is that wood is fairly durable. Even in the occasional firefights, breakneck chases, and other misadventures that they find themselves in, Groot trips less and less and gains more and more height. Within another month of leaving his pot, his head is at Gamora's shoulder and his voice sounds less like a squalling infant.

She finds him one day in the cargo hold. Peter, as always, has one of his Terran music cassettes playing. At this point, they're familiar enough that Gamora doesn't even entirely hear them anymore, even the loud songs with lots of crashing and clanging. Groot, apparently, does: he's dancing. 

Or at least Gamora assumes it's dancing. It's not quite like Peter's dancing, which is usually some kind of shuffle or rhythmic stepping combined with nonsensical hand and arm movements (Gamora may have mostly come around on the dancing thing, but twirling one's hands around each other lacks symmetry and rhythm, no matter what Peter says). Instead, Groot's hips jut from one side to the other, pulling his torso down so his body flexes like a bow. His arms extend from his sides, waving up and down in time with the music, so that at times it looks like he's tapping invisible people on the head. His dancing, overall, is much better than Peter's, to Gamora's very untrained eye, with more variety and vitality.

Thanks to the translator microbes, Gamora can understand the words to this song perfectly, irrational though they are. Why anyone would associate a political title with one's ability to dance is beyond her, although perhaps the titular queen simply happens to dance as well. Nevertheless, the melody is the kind of pleasant that sticks in your head, and the combination of tinkly instruments and unceasing vocals providing a background suits it quite well.

Groot turns in his dancing and freezes when he sees her, but, not wanting to interrupt the song, she only smiles instead of speaking. She begins to nod her head in time with the beat, and the smile Groot gives her in return is wide and joyful. He moves again, this time towards her, while still dancing.

"What – " she begins, and Groot's three wooden fingers (the other two are still growing) catch her hand, tugging her further into the cargo space. "No," she says, "no, no, no, I don't dance – "

He lifts his hand over his head, pulling hers with it and turning her around him. His arm extends to the side, bringing her in closer, and then he steps back and brings their hands in front of him so that he can raise them and twirl himself underneath them.

Peter's voice comes down from the cockpit, equal parts amused and aggrieved. "Really? This is the song that you guys decide to have a dance party to? _ABBA_?"

Gamora's hesitation at dancing disappears the moment she realizes it irritates Peter, and she lifts her hand once again to spin Groot. "Was that word translated correctly? Because it made no sense."

"It's the name of the band," Peter says, and although her attention is on Groot, she sees him trudge halfway down the stairs from the cockpit and lean against the wall there with his arms crossed. "A group of fearsome warriors called Vikings. This was their battle cry."

Over the past few months, Gamora has come to recognize the look on Peter's face that means that he's lying for no reason other than his own amusement, and she sees it now. She sees it a lot, actually, when he talks about Earth and its customs, to the point where Gamora would be surprised if she knew a single true thing about Earth. Still, the idea has its own appeal: a bloody and victorious warrior queen dancing over the corpses of her enemies.

"Maybe it could be our battle cry," says Gamora mildly. Groot seems to enjoy the spinning, since he's been doing it continuously throughout the chorus.

"Yeah, no, under no circumstances," says Peter.

Groot finally spins himself onto the floor, losing his grasp on Gamora's hand, and sits there for a moment before smiling up at Peter.

"I am Groot!" he says.

Peter sighs. "Fine. I'll rewind and play it again, but then we're going onto some _good_ music, all right?"

v.

"It's kind of nice for us all to be here together, for once," Peter says, resting his chin on his hands and his elbows on his knees. "You know, even though the Milano's such a small ship, it seems like we're always off doing our own thing."

"Quill," Drax says, with as much patience as Gamora has ever heard from him, "we've been arrested."

"Well, yes, but maybe we can just look at this as bonding time, you know? How are you guys doing?"

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm doing pretty _arrested_ ," says Rocket.

Peter sits back against the wall, letting his arms go to his sides and rest on the bench in the cell. "Technically we were just detained, and this was all just a misunderstanding – "

"Why do you have that look on your face, Rocket?" Gamora asks, talking over Peter.

Rocket reaches up with one paw and smooths his smile away. "Oh, nothing," he says. "Just kind of ironic, isn't is, that even with all the illegal stuff we've been doing these past couple months, it's the thing on the straight-and-narrow that gets us arrested."

" _Detained_ ," Peter says quickly. "And – hang on, what illegal stuff? We haven't been doing any illegal stuff."

"Oh," says Rocket, smirking. " _Right_." And he gives Peter an exaggerated wink.

Gamora rolls her eyes and looks away to hide her smile.

"At least we were victorious in our battle," says Drax.

"Yeah, against an eleven-year-old punk-ass kid calling in bomb threats to get out of school," says Rocket, shaking his head. "At least he got arrested, too."

"Detained," Peter repeats again, but this time in flat tones. His eyes are closed and his head tipped against the wall – if he hadn't spoken, Gamora would have assumed he was napping.

"Kind of nice for us all to be back in the same detention cell," Rocket says, almost wistfully. "Like the old days, when all of us were after you, Quill. Although I guess it's a little different this time, with Drax here and the green one conscious."

"Once this comes to the attention of the Nova Corps instead of the local authorities, they will surely release us," Gamora points out.

"Unless _someone_ ," Rocket says, shooting a pointed look at Drax, "gets arrested for excessive force."

"He survived, did he not?" Drax says, and shrugs. "So it wasn't excessive."

Rocket shakes his head. "Sorry, big guy, but I got no respect for someone who starts something and won't finish it."

"So he should've killed him?" Gamora says, raising her eyebrows.

"I am Groot," says Groot, who Gamora really _did_ think was napping.

"Who cares how old the kid was? He wants to throw the first punch, he needs to learn how to deal with the consequences."

"He did," says Gamora. "By getting arrested."

She, Groot, Rocket, and Drax all look over at Peter, waiting for his correction, but he says nothing. Gamora leans closer to him on the bench that they're sharing, and realizes that he's humming faintly to himself in his sleep, the war cry of the Viking Dancing Queen.

The door to the cell opens with a mighty creak, and Denarian Dey looks in.

"Sorry for the confusion," he says, opening the door wider. "I've gotten the whole story from the city police and worked it all out. You're free to go."

"Good," says Rocket, shoving himself off his bench and brushing nonexistent dust off his shirt. "Sending us on a mission of the _utmost_ importance to the Nova Empire and then arresting us for doing our jobs. Ha! See if we help you jerks again."

"I am Groot," Groot tells Rocket, chastising.

"I know we were just detained, but it's still – "

"I'm awake!" Peter shouts, jerking upright entirely. "What? What's going – oh, hey, Dey."

"They have finally released us," Drax says, standing up. "See? I told you that if I did not remove the spine, it would not be murder."

"That's not actually how it…" Dey begins, and then looks beseechingly at Peter.

"Yeah, no worries, I'll deal with it." Peter yawns and stretches as he stands up, and then catches sight of Gamora's pursed lips and crossed arms. "What?"

"You were the one who said it was bonding time, and yet you were the one to fall asleep."

"I wasn't asleep!" Peter protests. "Just resting my eyes. Mentally preparing myself after a long and difficult mission, for which financial compensation would be greatly appreciated, not that I'm asking," he adds to Dey, who rolls his eyes.

"Your ship's waiting for you," Dey tells them.

"What do you think, guys?" Peter says to the room at large. "Home?"

 _Yes_ , thinks Gamora, with some surprise. _It may just be._


End file.
